I had actually never thought about where she lived. For me, she lived in the gym, like most of my friends. Playing one sport or another. But while we all worried about things, like living in a trailer, or parents splitting up, what kind of cars we rode in, (would eventually drive), if we had the right jeans, the right tennis shoes… while all these worries were going on in our own heads, hearts, most of us were really thinking, that’s my friend from band, from choir, the one I sit behind in social studies, the girl I trust to know my secret crush, my period schedule, my first choice to sit with on long bus rides —- because this is where people live, where your real friends live, right beside you — it’s never about the trailer.
I suppose everything takes a long time to learn. And I’m still learning. And sometimes learning means forgetting. Forgetting about all the trivial things. I don’t care what cars my friends drive. The only reason I know one, is because I had to follow her to another friend’s house. A house that was beautiful, surely because of its view of Lake Latoka, but more so because it gathered us in. Gathered us in beyond all loft and luxury, and lifted us with laughter — a laughter that is still bouncing my feet, springing my step, joying my heart. This is the real measure of friendship. And lives beside me. Within me. Us. Forever.
Getting to know each other, she asked me what books I had written. It was my publisher who had referred me to this hair stylist. As I listed them off, she said, twice, “Oh, I have that book!” Both delighted, we began to wander freely in each other’s story. I knew my hair was safe in her hands.
At any book event that my mom attended, people would say, “Oh, this is so me,” or “You must have written this about me,” or “It’s me!!!” — to which my mom would reply, “Actually it’s about me!” We would all laugh, knowing that everyone was actually right.
We all want to be seen. We need it to survive. There is the ineffective shortcut of shock, that so many want to rush into, but this is not sustainable, nor fulfilling. No, we need to be seen joyfully, gently, heartfully. With empathy and wonder. Kindness. Slowly.
I saw them on display as I made the coffee this morning at my friend’s house. My cups. My story. Resting next to the Lefse recipe of her mother — her story. I suppose that’s what friendship is, the combining of our stories. Newly coiffed and caffeined, I smile out the window, ready to write a new page. Will you join me?
He would call me up at work to tell me things like “You can’t waste time before you’re 35.” Doing nothing on a Wednesday afternoon, but for reading this article, he thought it was important to let me know. Both of us in our early twenties, we gave ourselves the permission for things like that — contemplating and justifying our youthful actions, never imagining that time would actually pass, and pass at lightning speed.
His current days were slow, in between freelance jobs, and mine were slow, endlessly working on the catalog.
Just out of college, I did layout and design. It sounds more glamorous than it was. My current project was to create a plumbing and heating catalog. Hundreds of pages. Thousands of parts. Number after number. All under an impossible deadline. Because prices had a lifespan, they could change before I finished one section. And to complete this monstrosity and get it to print before all the pricing would actually change, well it just seemed impossible. So when my best friend would call with important news like he thought he might resemble Tristan (Brad Pitt) from the Legends of the Fall movie, and should he buy a horse, and what about parking, could you park a horse? — to this, even though I knew I could and had fallen legendary, I had to reply, “I’m working on the catalog…”
After months of getting this response he decided that when complete, we would burn this catalog. True to his word, he arrived in our parking lot the day the printer dropped off the cartons. When everyone had left for the day, we took a garbage barrel and rolled it to the center of the parking lot. Of course we said a few words, we were dramatic like that, and set fire to the pages that separated our unwastable time for all these months. I suppose we could have emptied the barrel. But we didn’t. Soon the flame rose higher than our youthful hopes, and became far too obvious for those driving by on Hopkins Crossroad. I couldn’t see if he was praying, but I knew I was — praying in slight fear that the flames would get away from us, but really more in gratitude that I had such a champion. A champion who marked the moments. Who recognized my time.
Sitting in the studio yesterday, painting in my sketchbook that no one will see, listening to Oprah and Brene Brown talk about being seen, being heard, being valued…I thought, “I just need a champion.” And it’s not about vanity, or ego, it is simply having someone stand beside the flames and knowing together this was time well spent.
I sent my sketch to Margaux — sweet, little Margaux, who is so free with her wows! She sent the hearts and the open mouth smiley, and said it was beautiful. And my time was not wasted. Each tiny stroke in this sketchbook brought to me my champion. And I gave thanks beside the flame.
It was only the most trusted friends who held your place. They lined us up for everything at Washington Elementary. The lavatory. The drinking fountain. The library. And it continued onto the playground, at the monkey bars and swings. At the Dairy Queen. The movie theatre. But urgencies arose, and we asked our closest friends to hold our place as we navigated from the middle of the ticket line into the back of the bathroom one. Darting back without missing a step.
We had special languages then. Phrases and words. Tattoos from Cracker Jack boxes. We wrote on each other’s hands. Pricked our fingers. Braided our hair. Anything to connect. To hold our place.
I suppose we’re still doing that. I know that I am. I can leave the country for six months, and before I’ve changed my internal and external clock, I am mid conversation with the ones who pinky-sweared to be there upon my return. Always making room for me.
It’s not lost on me that I gave her my hand painted bookmark. We Wordle daily, long distance. Share silly thoughts and emails. And we are tassled together. Even as life throws us from line to line, beyond the grumbles of those waiting, those checking their watches and throwing hands in air, we smile, knowing, repeating, “Oh, but it is my place!”
He didn’t explain the science of crop rotation to me. Not that I would have understood. But I did recognize when we took a different path to the tractor, one summer to the next. All he said, my grandfather, when I pointed to where I thought we walked the year before was, “That field needs to rest.”
I was best friends with Sheri and Jan in the first grade. When we were in sync, it was fantastic. Jumping rope. Bike rides. Breathless stories with flashlights under the covers of curfew. But “three is always tricky” my grandma explained, as I cried having turned into the one of “two against.” We had all spent our time in that rotation of being the one left out. And it seemed endless when you were in it.
I never saw my grandfather angry. I had heard stories, so I knew that it could happen. But it was never directed at me. And certainly never at the fields. “It’s the nature of things,” he said. Never faulting one field’s need to rest. I suppose it was this that brought me the most comfort — to not fight the timing. I smiled with him, as we walked through the dirt. He asked me about school, it having just ended for the year. He asked about my friends, “We’re resting right now,” I said. He shook his head. He understood. He felt like my summer friend.
Our fruit trees in the yard seem to be taking the year off. I love them. We’re still eating the jam from last year. Next year will come all too soon. I nod to myself, taking comfort in the sweet nature of things, my summer friend.
We learned pretty early on the power of words. We began writing letters to each other during our summer vacations from grade school. Living in the same town, armed with banana seat bikes and endless sunny days, we easily rode to each other’s houses, to the beach, to main street in downtown Alexandria, but still we felt the need to connect.
This gift that we had been given in the first grade strengthened with each letter written. Straight from the playbook, I wrote thank yous for birthday parties. Recaps of “events” attended and unattended. Who did what, said what, to whom. Wrote in solidarity of mutual enemies — never capitalizing their names because as Mrs. Bergstrom had stated, we capitalize the proper nouns to show their importance. We capitalized our friends’ names.
It would be easy to say that we had more time then. And as hard as it is for me to admit, we have the same amount of time. Always have. Always will. It’s just how we choose to fill it. I want to get better in my choices. Capitalize on the goodness. Forget the things that aren’t really all that important — the things that don’t deserve my, our, full attention. Focus on the “thank-you”s. The “it’s great to be your friend”s. Knowing that it is worth the repeat. The writing down. The chronicling. How spectacular it is to have support. To have encouragement. To have combined laughter. To have shared experience. To have friends!
I’m writing to you this morning. Every morning. It’s great to be your Friend!
Schools had many names for it — we called it bombardment — and indeed it was by definition “a continuous attack.” The rules were fairly simple.Two teams separated by the line in the middle of the gym. A ton of red rubber balls — thrown at each other until no one was left standing. I don’t know if it was a lesson in aggression or empathy, or just to work off our excess energy before the afternoon Humanities courses. I loved sports, but I never liked this game. To win, (and I’m not even sure what “winning” was) you had to dish it out a lot harder than you received it. And maybe it’s silly, but I didn’t like the sound of rubber hitting flesh. Especially by my own hand. So I threw it out in the way I wanted to receive it. Was it winning? Not by definition, but I could sit next to the girl in the following class and know it wasn’t me that left the “Voit” mark on her thigh.
It’s time for me to make new greeting cards. In today’s world of speed and technology, I like being a part of the act of kindness that still takes a slow hand. A card picked. A message written. An envelope addressed. A stamp adhered. Sealed. Posted. Sent. And when creating the messages on the cards, I think of not only what I’d like to say, but what I’d like to hear. (I hope I remember that in my daily conversations.) Before the new card is even printed, I have sent it in my heart and mind, many times.
This one came easily — this “…because we’re friends.” And I know I’ve been blessed with the kindness of friendship — a bombardment really. Wishing the same for all, this is what I’m throwing out there — this friendship, as we walk the hallway on our way to Humanities.
To see yourself in the Alexandria Echo Press, was proof that you existed. The paper came out the day after our weekly softball game. During a slow news week, the local photographer would come to the fields and take some random photos. It happened only a couple of times between the ages of 8 and 12, but I can still feel it. That first glance of the sports page. Scanning. Long blonde hair. Bat. It was me. In full muddy black and uncrisp white. We rarely won a game. But that was never really the point. We were together. In the sun. With our friends in an endless summer. The proof was in our hearts, and randomly validated in the press.
When I finished this painting, the first thing my friend said was, “She belongs in the MIA.” It was as if I had turned the page and saw myself for the first time. I guess that’s what friends can do for you. Your true friends validate what is in your heart. They see you. And it is beautiful.
We are going to the MIA this afternoon with this very friend. And we all will belong. Together. My heart holds the proof — and even with a dusting of snow, I know the warmth of this friendship will never end.
She hadn’t told me anything deep, dark, or hidden. It wasn’t a designated secure place. Neither church, nor Switzerland. But for some reason, on the return bus trip from an out of town volleyball game, I felt safe. In this back seat, looking straight ahead. Knees pushed against the seat in front of us, I told my friend, as I had told no other contemporary, my secret.
This friend listened. Without judgement or questions. Braced, as if I were passing her the ball. I could feel the words spank off from my overworked forearms. She took the ball. What a relief to pass it on.
We had Judy Blumed our way through Junior High, but when I asked, on this yellow-orange school bus, “Are you there, it’s me…” she listened. No solutions offered. Just release.
I don’t know who we played that day after school. I don’t know if we won or lost. But never had I felt more a part of something. I had a real teammate. We didn’t speak of it again. We didn’t need to.
It’s not necessary to me that she remembers. I won’t forget. I had such a friend.
I was watching a German creator who recently moved to Los Angeles, California. She was lonesome. Missing her friends. She walked around the streets and picked up odd objects. From the ground. Abandoned buildings. Seemingly useless stuff, but she could see something beautiful. She made a light that turned on by an automatic switch, notifying her of the German time between 9am and 9pm — the time she could safely call up a friend in Germany. Her best friend. To hear the sound of her voice. I love this idea. This simple reminder. A light to stay connected.
Because that’s everything, isn’t it? Just to be connected to the ones you love.
I search the house. Photographs and spare parts. Metal. Wood. Scraps. I know I can make anything. My heart smiles and tells my brain, “I’ve got this.” The flame that lights my mother’s memory is shining brightly. There’s only one thing I need to know — what time is it in heaven?
